Just Stop
by QuMerc
Summary: Sam has left for Stanford. John and Dean are on their own. Bobby makes an appearance. Sequel to You Okay? Migraine Verse.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Kripke and the CW. No copyright infringement intended.

Note: Okay, so this has been a long time in coming. I've gotten some really great feedback for You Okay? and some have asked if I was going to write more about Dean and his migraines. This is the sequel to You Okay?. Well, not some much a sequel as a bridge to the third part in the series, I'm Fine.

Note #2: This was extremely hard to write and it might also be a little hard to read. Not much talking goes on in the first chapter. I do promise, though, that the second chapter contains lots of talking, possibly some yelling, and maybe the occasional pounding of fists. If you can indulge me by reading this first chapter, it'll be all worth it in the end (I hope).

As always, feedback is appreciated. Thanks for your continued support.

* * *

Just Stop

Dean was driving, eyes intent on the road. The radio was on, but it was too low to hear it. John thought that was unusual. He knew his son liked noise, whether it be rock anthems blaring from the car speakers or raucous-filled bars, it was what helped Dean drown out the thoughts in his head. The particular thoughts he was having these days were probably heavier than most. John was sure of that. He should know. They were the same thoughts in his head, too, and neither dared speak them aloud.

John reached forward and turned up the volume. _For Whom the Bell Tolls _chased away the silence, the underlying thump of Cliff Burton's bass causing a slight vibration in the Impala's frame.

_That ought to help_, John thought with some satisfaction. Music had always been an outlet for Dean and Metallica was one of his favorite groups.

Dean didn't say anything, didn't even flick a glance in John's direction. Where he would normally be tapping along with the beat, his fingers were still. In fact, all of him seemed to be still, unnaturally so.

John sighed, disappointed.

Three weeks since his return from California, and Dean still hadn't said much of anything. Sure, he answered direct questions, but his responses were always short and monosyllabic. John was pretty sure he should be grateful that Dean hadn't gone completely silent like he'd done when Mary died. A quiet Dean was unnerving and John had a hard time dealing with that. Sam had always been the one who could get through to his brother. He had made it look so easy.

Not for the first time John ached for the presence of his youngest son. He missed him. Dean, though, was the one suffering. Dean had retreated inside himself and John was once again having to cope with a quiet son. John was completely out of his depth and he resented Sam for putting him in this position.

John's shoulders slumped. He had to be honest with himself. None of this was entirely Sam's fault.

_If you leave, don't bother coming back. _Those were the words John had yelled at his youngest. Like a song set on repeat, the words played in John's head. In his mind's eye, he saw Sam standing defiantly before him, his face contorted with anger. But it was the anguish in Sam's eyes that had completely gutted John. How could have done that to his own child?

John had no one but himself to blame. He'd let anger get the best of him as it often did when he argued with Sam. He hadn't even given a thought to what this was doing to Dean, hadn't even glanced at him as the three of them had stood in the kitchen, the acceptance letter to Standford lying on the kitchen table like a damning piece of evidence.

A movement from Dean interrupted his musings. His son had turned down the music.

"You want to stop and grab a bite to eat?" John asked in the thickening silence.

"Not hungry," Dean answered, voice dull.

John restrained his sudden irrational urge to slam his fist into the dashboard of the Impala. This had been an all too common response as of late. He may not have had much to say since Sam had gone, but Dean had managed to eat and sleep, and generally act like a functioning human being. In the last couple of days, though, things had changed. Dean's appetite had waned. John may not have liked it, but he hadn't said anything, preferring to give his son the space he needed. That's what John liked to tell himself, anyway. Deep down, he knew he was trying to assuage the guilt for pushing Sam away and hurting Dean in the process.

Right now, none of that mattered. John couldn't let it. Today John was sure Dean hadn't eaten anything and John had just about had enough.

"There's a diner. Pull over," John growled, a hint of danger in his voice. God help them if Dean decided to disobey.

Without a word, Dean took the highway exit and pulled into the nearly empty parking lot in front of Ma's Kitchen.

John didn't say anything either, refusing to give voice to the frustration filling his veins. He wasn't going to be responsible for his actions if he did.

* * *

John chewed a French fry and stared at his son sitting across from him.

Dean was flipping through John's journal, occasionally glancing down at the notes concerning their latest hunt. There wasn't much, but Dean was giving it all his attention, ignoring the plate sitting to the right of him. The golden fries were still piled on the plate, the hamburger with two bites missing—John had counted—next to them. Interestingly enough, Dean had gone through two tall glasses of Coke.

John gritted his teeth. The hunt was his last resort. Dean needed something to do, something to kill. Frankly, John did too.

"You gonna eat?" John asked gruffly.

Dean, eyes still focused on the page in front of him, reached for a fry and put it in his mouth.

"Dean," John growled, resisting the urge to reach across the table and throttle his son. It was Dean saying, without actually saying, 'sure, Dad, whatever you say, Dad. I don't really care, but I'll do it just to shut you up and get you off my back.' In comparison, Sam's open defiance had at times been refreshing.

"Let me have the journal." John let his frustration run free. "And the notes."

Dean looked at him in confusion, but handed over the items as asked.

John put both on the seat next to him, his movements almost gentle. Then he picked up Dean's plate and slammed it down in front of him. John ignored Dean's flinch and didn't bother to pick up the few fries now scattered on the table. He leaned against the back of the booth and folded his arms. He knew that this wasn't how Sam would have dealt with this, but that was too damn bad.

Dean looked from the plate to John, a look of uncertainty flickering in his eyes.

John nodded his head toward the food. "You didn't eat breakfast or lunch. You're sure as hell going to eat dinner."

Dean's Adam's Apple bobbed as he swallowed. He looked down at his plate then over at his soda. He reached for his glass.

John took firm hold of it and moved it out of Dean's reach. "Eat!" It was an order.

Dean's eyes widened. "I'm not three."

"Then quit acting like it," John returned. His finger tapped on the table, signaling his impatience.

Dean stared at him for a moment before picking up the burger and taking a big bite. He managed two more bites before setting it back down on the plate. He glanced at the fries and a look passed over his face, but it was gone before John could decipher it.

A couple of fries disappeared into Dean's mouth. Then he pushed his plate away. He stared once again at John.

"Fine," John said. Dean had eaten more than half the burger and some of the fries. He could be satisfied with that. "I'm going to go take care of the bill." He slid out of the booth, watching Dean do the same.

Dean nodded and headed toward the back of the restaurant where the restrooms were located.

John sighed and wondered if breakfast was going to be another battle. He guessed it didn't really matter. He'd win that one, too.

* * *

They stood in front of the old house, trees looming over both sides of it. Both Winchesters carried shotguns full of rock salt. John had a handgun tucked away at the small of his back and a water pistol of holy water in his pocket. He'd seen Dean equip himself in a similar fashion.

John had gotten wind of some activity that could possibly be their kind of thing. Unfortunately, he hadn't had much to go on and a reconnaissance mission was in order. He was pleased to note that Dean was scanning the area, eyes alert. It seemed as if, finally, Dean's head was in the game.

The three hour drive to the Lisle farm had been just as quiet and oppressive as the entire trip had been. There had only been one difference. Dean's hands had been locked on the steering wheel, knuckles white. John had waited for Dean to say something, thinking that the incident at the diner had finally provoked a response from his son. There had been nothing.

John sighed, he was doing that a lot these days, and pulled out his EMF meter. The front yard was clean of activity.

They climbed the front steps, but John hesitated at the front door. He turned to look at Dean and saw that his son had his own EMF meter out. John took a quiet moment to be proud of his boy. Sam's...desertion had taken a toll on Dean in ways John could hardly imagine. But here Dean stood, every inch the hunter. This had been a good idea. John congratulated himself. He didn't need Sam at all, not to take care of Dean.

"Wait," John said as Dean put a hand on the knob. "Just so we're clear, we're looking for signs of ghostly activity."

Dean glanced down at the meter in his hand. By the look on his face, John could tell Dean was barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes.

John decided to overlook the expression, knowing he was being overly cautious. They hadn't been on a hunt in weeks and they were a man short. Dean would just have to indulge him. Besides, John was kind of glad to see a spark of attitude.

"The people who used to live in this house," John nodded at the For Sale sign with the Contract Pending notification, propped in the front yard, "reported lights flickering, things being misplaced or completely lost, and the final straw, a disembodied voice."

Dean nodded at this summation and again reached for the doorknob.

"I'm not done," John said and watched as Dean's lips tightened. "Words or no, drop the attitude." He might have been glad to see it, but he couldn't let Dean get away with it.

"Yes, sir," Dean responded, voice steady.

"Better," John muttered, then continued. "We did our research. No one died here, but that doesn't mean there wasn't a piece of someone left behind."

Dean frowned, his nose wrinkling.

"You're right," John said, these one-sided conversations were nothing new. These might be new circumstances, but it was like riding a bike. "It's gross. Keep an eye out for the strange or unusual."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I know. This isn't Ripley's Believe it or Not." John put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Be careful."

Dean frowned at him and made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

John grabbed his wrist, jerking his son's attention back to him. "Do not be flippant about this, Dean. Do you understand me?"

Dean dropped his head, but nodded.

"Look at me!" John's grip tightened as he waited for Dean to comply. "Need to hear words, Dean."

Dean blinked up at him and tried to tug his wrist away, but John just glared at him. "Dean."

"Yes, sir."

"Good," John said, letting go. He dug a flashlight out of his pocket and entered the house. Dean right behind him.

The twin beams of their flashlights swept over the mostly empty house. "You take the upstairs," John ordered. "I'll look around down here."

There was no answer, but John wasn't expecting one. John scanned the living room, nudging at cardboard boxes with the toe of his boot. When he glanced inside them, he noted some of the odds and ends and concluded that it was all trash.

He pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen and checked the cabinets. The whole room was empty.

John was just making his way back through the living room when he heard the roar of a shotgun. Even knowing that he'd trained both his sons and that Dean could handle himself, John felt his heart leap into his throat.

He raced up the stairs and stopped dead. Dean was at the far end of the hallway, slumped against the wall like a doll forgotten by it's owner. As John watched, Dean fell over onto his side.

John didn't waste any time. He ran and knelt down next to his son. "Dean?" He ducked down his head and noticed that Dean's eyes were half-open. But what chilled John was that there seemed to be no spark of life in them. "Dean? Son? What happened? You okay?" He grabbed at Dean's shoulders and pulled him upright. Dean's head fell forward. "Damn it, Dean. Answer me." John refused to give into the panic. "Dean!"

TBC

* * *

Thanks for reading. Please let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Kripke. No copyright infringement intended.

Note #1: I found this story a bit difficult to write because it really explores reactions. It doesn't have much in the way of _action_. Still, the story needed to be told so that the third part of the trilogy will make better sense. Thanks so much for those of you sticking with this one. Special thanks to catspaw, moira4eku, belatress, rainy day, Armed mischief, and NongPradu. I really appreciate your comments.

Note #2: The next and final part is being betad. I hope to have it up by August 1. Stay tuned.

Note #3: The following story contains cussing. Blame it on JDM in _Watchmen_.

* * *

Just Stop

Part 2

The shrill jangle of a telephone cut through the normal night sounds. At such a late hour, most people having been awakened in such a manner might be confused or even disorientated. Not Bobby Singer. Hunters didn't keep bankers' hours and Bobby could go from a sound sleep to firing a shotgun in the space of a yawn.

Already primed for action, Bobby snatched up the receiver and swung his feet to the floor in one smooth, economical movement. He was ready for anything. "Singer!" he barked.

"Bobby? I need your help!" The unmistakable growl was John Winchester's. It carried the usual intensity that only John could convey. The underlying panic, however, was both uncharacteristic and unsettling even if John was trying his best to mask it.

A spark of unease flared in Bobby's gut. There wasn't much that scared John Winchester. Only one thing, two really, could drive the ex-Marine to show real terror. Bobby didn't like the possible scenarios his imagination was conjuring up.

He took a deep, calming breath. "John, is it Sam? Has something happened?" Bobby knew the youngest Winchester had left home and was now attending Stanford University. In another life, John would have been supportive of the move. In this one, it only left him with an irrational fear that something would happen to Sam. Bobby had tried to explain that the boy was a great hunter and that he'd been trained by the best. But John wouldn't listen and arguing was futile.

Plain and simple; John didn't like to be out of control.

"What?" John was speaking. "No, Bobby. Sam's still gone." For a moment, bitterness eclipsed fear.

Bobby ignored the sullenness. A small kernel of terror was blossoming in his chest. Only one possibility remained. "Dean?" He half-whispered, already pulling on yesterday's rumpled clothes.

"He's been hurt, but," John started.

Bobby didn't allow him to finish. "Something's happened to Dean? Damn it, John, you took him on a hunt, didn't you? What the hell were you thinking, ya idjit?"

John's voice was glacial. "I know what's best for my boy, Bobby."

"You sure about that?" Bobby growled. "Seems to me you don't know Dean at all."

"Bobby." The warning in the tone was very real.

"You know how Dean feels about his kid brother. You should have given him more time—"

"That's enough, Bobby. I know him better than you do. He's _my _son."

"Then treat him that way. Not like some damn soldier!" Bobby snatched his wallet from atop the bureau and stuffed it into his back pocket.

A beat. Two. Three. The silence seemed to suck up the very air in the room. Bobby didn't care if he crossed the line with John Winchester, but if the man stopped talking to him, then Bobby would never find out what happened to Dean. The unknown was already eating him up inside. He was just about to say something, anything, when John finally spoke.

"Fuck you, Bobby." The words were ruthless. "He needed to focus on something other than Sam abandoning him and I gave it to him."

Bobby rolled his eyes as he took the stairs down to the first floor two at a time. "Are you even listenin' to yourself? Sam only went to school. You're the bastard that made it impossible for him to come back." Bobby was familiar with the story. Hearing Dean tell it in a holding-back-tears, gotta-be-strong voice had made Bobby ache for the boy. He'd always had a soft spot when it came to Dean.

"What happened between Sam and I is none of your g--damned business!" John shouted.

Bobby winced, his ear having taken the brunt of the assault. He opened his mouth to protest as loud and as emphatic as John had. He didn't get the chance.

"Shh, shh. I'm sorry, son." John was whispering. "God, Dean, I'm sorry. Just hold on. It's gonna be okay. Shh." The panic was back. The worry making John's voice shake.

"John? John?" Bobby yelled, argument forgotten. Damn it. Sometimes he wanted to kick his own ass as well as John's. Often arguing over Dean also meant they were ignoring him, too. The boy didn't deserve that. Never had.

There was no answer from John.

Bobby swallowed his fear. If Dean were seriously hurt, John would have taken him to the hospital. Right? Maybe they were already there.

No. Of course that wasn't right. John was notorious for avoiding hospitals and he'd called Bobby for help. "John, what's going on?"

"It's okay, son. Take it easy." Bobby could barely make out the soothing words. "I'll clean it up. Don't worry about it."

"John! Damn it! Answer me!" Bobby stood in the middle of his living room, only now realizing what helplessness really felt like...how paralyzing it was.

"Bobby?" John said softly, the anger gone. "I've tried everything and I….It's not working. I'm not sure what to do."

The insecurity in John's tone broke Bobby a little. John's stubbornness aside, he loved his boys. He hurt when they did.

"How bad is he hurt? What hurt him?" Bobby grabbed a knapsack and started stuffing books, both of the medical and the mystical variety, into it. He refused to believe that, between the two of them, he and John couldn't save Dean. He swallowed hard. To _help _Dean.

"It was a ghost," John finally answered. "It threw him around some. He knocked his shoulder pretty bad and bruised his back."

Bobby nodded to himself. This, he could work with. He had cold/heat packs, slings, muscle relaxants…. Bobby frowned. So did John. In fact, the whole thing sounded rather benign. It didn't even begin to explain the frantic phone call.

"What aren't you tellin' me?" Bobby barked out. "Does he have a concussion? Internal bleeding?" Bobby inhaled sharply. "Did Dean break his back?"

"No. Nothing like that." The reassurance came quickly. "I don't even think he lost consciousness. He—he managed to tell me that much."

"What the hell does that mean?" Bobby made sure the front door was locked and climbed into his car. "Tell me, John." Orders were probably the best way to handle Winchester right now.

"I've never seen him like this, Bobby. Its never gotten this bad before." There was a stuttering sigh from the other end of the line. "He can't move without getting sick. Fuck, he won't open his eyes."

"What the fuck are you waiting for, Winchester?" Bobby stomped on the gas and yanked on the wheel. His cell phone nearly went flying. "Call an ambulance!"

"Bobby, I can handle this," John said, but his confidence was gone, desperation taking its place.

"No, you can't," Bobby said through clenched teeth. "Call the damn ambulance and then let me know when you get to the hospital. I'll meet you there."

"Bobby—"

"Just do it, John!" The car roared down the dirt road and Bobby realized he had no idea in which direction he should be going. "Where are you?"

* * *

Bobby pulled into a parking space in front of the hospital and laid his head down on the steering wheel for a moment. The drive had seemed long, but in reality it had been short. It had surprised Bobby that the Winchesters had been so close to his place. That is until John had confessed that he had planned for them to visit him after the job was done.

With a sigh, Bobby headed inside.

The hospital was like any other. Very bright and very cold. It was a wonder that patients didn't freeze to death.

There wasn't much difference in the emergency room, either. Lots of people in various states of misery, the t.v. showing CNN in one corner and an infomercial on the other directly across from it.

Bobby ignored it all.

John was sitting in one of the hospital's ubiquitous chairs, its cracked blue plastic hard and unyielding. He was leaning forward, elbows balanced on his knees, head hanging down. His back may have been bowed, but it was stiff, his shoulders tight. When he looked up, Bobby noticed the bloodshot eyes.

Bobby sat down next to him. "How is he?" he asked quietly when it became apparent that John wasn't going to say anything.

"They took him away from me about two hours ago." John's voice was shredded. "The only thing the doctor has come out to tell me is that they're going to run some tests." He cleared his throat. "He'll be going in for a CT scan."

"Damn," Bobby said softly. "So they think it's a concussion? I thought you said—"

"It's not a fucking concussion," John said. Bobby was sure that if there had been living plants in the area, they would have shriveled up and died.

Bobby did his best to control his natural response. Violence was the answer when it killed things, evil things. He wasn't quite ready to classify John Winchester in that category. Time would tell if that would change. "Maybe you'd better tell me what the hell's goin' on."

"You didn't see him, Bobby," John stared off into space. "Sam and I got into the mother of all arguments." His smile was rueful. "Nothing new there, I know."

"You forgot that Dean was there, too, didn't you?" The Winchesters could be very predictable.

John snorted. "Like I said, nothing new." He shifted in his seat, eyes meeting Bobby's. "The way Sam and I argue tears Dean up pretty bad although he tries to hide it from us. That night, well, Sam's bombshell devastated him. He tried to hide that, too. Too bad we know him too well."

"Didn't stop either one of you from acting like asses, though, did it," Bobby remarked.

"Never does," John murmured. "I thought it might help if he were the one to drive Sam to California. I think it might have made things worse."

Bobby took his hat off and scratched his head. "It seems to me he would want the extra time with Sam."

"I know he did. Sammy might have, too. But then again, Sam wants normal. He made it perfectly clear that his family was as far from normal as you could get." John shrugged. "Sam may have preferred to take the bus."

"Wouldn't Sam have done that if that's what he wanted?" Bobby figured if Sam had won the battle about going to college, how he got there wouldn't be an issue.

John shot him a glance. "You do know my youngest, don't you? He would have done it for Dean, but he would have resented the hell out of it."

Bobby swore under his breath.

"Yeah, that's about right," John agreed.

"So did Dean say anything about the trip?" Bobby asked. "Something that might have been a clue that it was a disaster?"

"He didn't say a damn thing," John answered flatly.

"Not a thing?" Bobby repeated, something in his gut twisting. When Dean pulled the stoic routine, it only meant that he was locking in all his emotions and hiding his heart away where it couldn't be hurt anymore.

It was bad.

"Nothing," John said. "Dean went on with the usual routine—cleaned the weapons, helped me with research, did most of the driving. It was as if Sam had never been there. At least that's what Dean was trying to pretend."

"Damn," Bobby said, voice soft.

"I went along with it," John admitted. "I thought it was the best way to help him."

"You didn't know what else to do," Bobby said knowingly.

"Not really," John said. "So I found a nice, run-of-the-mill hunt. I figured he needed something to do to keep his mind off of things. It would help if there was something to kill, too. I knew _that_ would make Dean feel better."

Despite his earlier misgivings about Dean going on a hunt so soon after Sam's departure, Bobby had to admit that John had a point. "He always did like killing evil things."

John smiled for the first time since Bobby had arrived. "Sure does. Damn good at it, too." The smile slid from his face. "But then I fucked up."

Bobby frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You know how Dean is, Bobby," John went on. "People only see what they want to see. They never bother to see past whatever mask Dean is wearing and he encourages that."

"Yeah," Bobby was very well aware of Dean's gift for deflection.

"But if you _did_ bother to look, you would know him, really know him, know what he felt, what he thought. You'd see it in his eyes." John stood up and walked over to lean against the wall.

Bobby stood, too, and took a step nearer to his friend. "John," he prodded.

"I let him con me, Bobby," John said bitterly, eyes full of self-loathing. "With all of the stress he's been under, you think I would have realized. A couple of days ago he pretty much stopped talking, practically stopped eating. I _still_ completely missed it."

Bobby put a hand on John's arm. "Missed what?"

"Migraine," John bit out. "A fucking migraine."

"Dean gets migraines?"

"Yeah," John nodded. "Like Mary used to. He hasn't had one in a few years, though." He started pacing. "At least I thought so. Now I'm not so sure. I didn't see this one coming and I should have. The signs were so fucking obvious and I completely missed it. What kind of father does that make me, Bobby? My boy was in pain and I didn't see. Fuck!" John banged his fist against the pillar.

"Maybe Dean figured you were feeling as bad about Sam leaving as he was and he didn't want to bother you with it." Bobby tried to console and realized he'd missed the mark when John gave a harsh laugh.

"That doesn't make it any better." John rubbed his forehead. "This is the worst migraine he's ever suffered. I tried every trick I knew, but nothing worked."

"Then it's a good thing you brought him to the hospital," Bobby said. "They'll be able to help him."

John shoved his hands in his pockets and slumped against the pillar he'd recently hit. "Sam was always so good at seeing them coming…almost before Dean himself knew."

"Speaking of Sam," Bobby said. "Think we should call him?"

"No," John answered. "He's got his normal. I wouldn't want his family to get in the way of that." He shook his head. "Besides, he'd just leave again and that's what got Dean into trouble to begin with. I'll get him through this on my own."

"_We'll_ get him through this," Bobby vowed, touching John briefly on the shoulder.

"Thanks, Bobby."

TBC

* * *

Feedback appreciated. Thanks.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note #1: I know I promised that there was only one more part, but I ended up doing some re-writes. There are actually two more parts including this one. This one is a bit shorter than the other parts have been, but it was the best place to end it. The last part will make up for it, I promise.

Author's Note #2: Thanks to those of you who have been leaving comments. Your support has encouraged me to keep at this story. Thanks again. It really means a lot to me.

* * *

Just Stop

Part 3

Despite the darkness of the room, Dean could not force his eyelids all the way up. Through mere slits, he saw that someone was leaning over him. ″Dad?″

″Dean?″ It was a whisper, but it still felt like a sharp stone pinging off his temple.

It was not John Winchester.

Dean tensed, and swallowed a scream as muscles double-knotted themselves and then set in concrete. He bit his lip and reached up to squeeze his forehead. Tears of pain slipped from the corners of his eyes. His dad wasn't here and Dean wasn't even sure where _here_ was. The last few hours were a bit of a blur.

A hand grabbed onto his and started to pull it away from his head. Instinctively he lashed out, driving a weak fist into the shadow hanging over him. His knuckles brushed fabric, but made no impact.

″Take it easy, Dean.″ The voice was still soft. ″I'm Doctor Taylor. The CT scan is only going to take about ten minutes. I need for you to lie absolutely still so that the x-rays are as accurate as possible.″

Doctor? CT Scan? The hospital, that's where he was. Dean now vaguely remembered the bright flashing lights, feeling every bump like a blow to his back, as the ambulance flew through traffic.

His father had called for an ambulance. Why had John done that? All Dean needed was a cool washcloth on his face and a dark room with peace and quiet. You couldn't get those things at a hospital.

Dean swallowed hard as the table he was lying on began to move. In slow motion, he was pulled backward. As the walls closed in around him, Dean's breath grew short and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

His stomach cramped and he knew he was in trouble.

* * *

″John,″ Bobby growled. ″Sit down. Pacin' ain't gonna do a hell of a lot of good.″

″I don't know, Bobby,″ John returned. ″It's either this or I start punching things...or people.″

Bobby made a grand gesture. ″Walk as many miles as you want.″ Privately he hoped that someone would come talk to them soon. John wasn't the only one frustrated.

It was as if someone heard his silent plea. A doctor in purple scrubs was coming toward him, white sneakers squeaking along the floor, giving him away. ″John Winchester?″ he asked.

″That's me,″ John said. He pointed at Bobby. ″This is Bobby Singer. My brother-in-law. How's Dean?″

The doctor gestured to the plastic chairs. ″Let's sit down.″

″Well? What the hell is going on with my son?″ John demanded as they sat.

The doctor didn't seem ruffled by John's rudeness. ″I'm Doctor Taylor, one of the neurologists on staff here. I was the one responsible for conducting Dean's CT scan.″

″Yes, and?″ John asked impatiently. He leaned forward as if to pull the words from the doctor's mouth.

″Let him say his piece, John,″ Bobby interjected. He, too, was anxious to hear what the doctor had to say. But like most medical professionals, it seemed as if he was going to take his time. They liked to choose the right words so that families of patients didn't get too upset.

John shot him a glare, before turning his intense gaze back to Taylor. ″Just give it to me straight, doctor.″

″From what I can tell of the CT scan, Dean doesn't have a tumor. Nor does he have a CSF leak,″ Doctor Taylor explained.

″CSF leak?″ John asked, frowning. ″What the hell is that?″

″Sometimes head injuries cause a cerebrospinal fluid leak. I don't think that's the case here.″ Doctor Taylor leaned forward. ″Nothing was mentioned about a head injury when Dean was brought into the ER. We discovered the bump to the back of his head when he was examined by the ER doctor.″

″Bump to the back of his head?″ John looked stricken.

Bobby was frowning. ″You sayin' he has a concussion, doc?″

Doctor Taylor nodded. ″It's a slight concussion, but the pain Dean's feeling is a lot worse than it should be. From what he's been able to tell me, Dean's had this migraine for a couple of days. Do either of you know how Dean hit his head?″

Bobby could tell the doctor was suspicious. When Bobby looked to John, he saw that his friend was still stupefied over the revelation. ″I own a junkyard,″ he said, quite truthfully. ″John and Dean came to visit. Dean tripped over some crap I had lying on the porch and took a tumble down the stairs. He bounced right back up and said he was fine. I guess we shouldn't have believed him.″

John shot him a grateful look. ″Yeah. It's not like my son to be so clumsy, but his head must have been hurting and I just didn't know it.″ For a minute, John looked mad. Whether at himself or Dean, Bobby couldn't tell.

″That's probably true,″ Doctor Taylor agreed. ″Don't beat yourself up about it. Chronic sufferers of migraines tend to develop a high threshold for pain. They've had to learn to adapt.″

Bobby snorted to himself. That sounded like Dean.

″Sometimes,″ the doctor was saying, ″they don't realize how bad the pain has gotten until they're past the point of no return. Unfortunately, in this case, the head injury exacerbated the migraine.″

John leaned his head back against the wall. ″Fuck,″ he blew out. ″I should have known.″

″John.″ Bobby laid a hand on his shoulder. ″Like the doc said, there's no use cryin' over it. You know how good Dean is about keeping things to himself.″

John turned his head to look at Bobby. ″The fuck I'm going to let that go on, Bobby.″

Bobby had his doubts about that statement, Dean could be a sneaky bastard, but he only nodded.

John turned to the doctor. ″Can I take him home now?″

″No,″ Doctor Taylor said. ″I'm going to run another CT scan when it's feasible.″

″Why?″ Bobby asked before John could say anything.

″I want to get a clearer picture and make absolutely sure that there is nothing wrong.″

″My boy isn't too fond of inclosed spaces, Doctor Taylor,″ John said. ″Is it absolutely necessary to run another scan?″

″Yes,″ Doctor Taylor answered. ″Dean wasn't able to stay in the box as long as I wanted him to.″

″Because of the claustrophobia, ya think?″ Bobby asked.

The doctor shook his head. ″All things considered, he was doing pretty well. But then Dean started to vomit. Because of the intractable vomiting, we're going to have to admit him.″

″Intractable vomiting?″ John murmured, eyebrows knitting. ″He vomited earlier, but it was only the one time.″

Doctor Taylor sighed. ″His stay in an ER cubicle might have made things worse. It's fluorescent hell down there and the noise must have sounded like being on stage during a Metallica concert.″

The reference was appropriate, Bobby thought, but looking at the rage on John's face, it was prudent not to say so out loud. ″John,″ he started to say.

But John was already on his feet, fists clenched. ″Are you saying that bringing Dean here made him even sicker?″

″Your son needs to be here,″ Doctor Taylor answered gently. ″The intractable vomiting is just another symptom. One that could turn deadly if not taken care of. Please sit down, Mr. Winchester, and I'll explain how this is going to work.″

John stood a moment longer, jaw clenched. It wasn't until Bobby tugged at his arm that he finally took a breath and sat down. ″Fine,″ he said. ″What are you going to do for Dean?″

″We're working on getting the vomiting to stop. In addition, we're supplying his body with fluids to combat the dehydration that the vomiting has caused. We'll also start him on a DHE protocol which consists of Benadryl and Xanax, followed by the Dihydroergotamine and then Phenegran.″ He stared at John. ″Don't worry, Mr. Winchester, we'll take could care of him.″

″Can I see him?″ John demanded.

″We're getting him settled in the Neuro ICU. He's got his own room that is dark and quiet. Once we've got the vomiting under control, I'll let you up to see him. You're just going to have to be patient.″

″How long do you think I'll have to wait?″ John asked.

″As long as you need to, Mr. Winchester.″ Doctor Taylor stood up. ″One more thing.″

″There's more?″ Bobby asked incredulously.

Doctor Taylor looked at him. ″Dean's blood pressure is high. It's common with migraineurs. It's also common for people to assume they suffer from migraines, but in reality it's hypertension. We'll give him something to help lower his bp and continue to monitor the situation.″

″Doctor Taylor, Dean has suffered from migraines since he was a kid,″ John said. His face had paled at the word, _hypertension. _″His mother had them as well. This is the first time I've had to bring him to the hospital because of one. In fact, Dean hasn't had one in years.″

″In a way, that's good news,″ Doctor Taylor said. ″Migraines are painful and debilitating, but hypertension can sneak up on you and kill you.″

Bobby found he couldn't speak. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands.

″I'll have a nurse come get you when Dean is ready for visitors.″

″Please, Doctor Taylor,″ John half-whispered, his voice cracking. ″Please help my son.″

″I will,″ Doctor Taylor promised. ″A nurse will come for you soon.″

The doctor's footsteps faded away and Bobby looked up at John.

John's eyes were wet. ″Dean better be okay, Bobby.″

″He'll be fine,″ Bobby answered gruffly. ″Kid doesn't know how to give up.″

John choked out a laugh. ″Yeah, you're right about that.″

TBC

* * *

Feedback is like chocolate. Keeps the creative juices flowing.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: _Supernatural _belongs to Kripke and co. No copyright infringement intended.

Note #1: I'm so very sorry this took so long. I hope that you are still interested in reading it.

Note #2: Thanks to everyone who has left comments. They are very much appreciated.

Note #3: Some swearing in this one. Beware.

* * *

Just Stop

Part 4

John pushed open the door to Dean's room, and slipped in on silent feet. Stealth was a product of his military training and it was times like these he put it to good use. Dean's room was extremely quiet. Not even the machines surrounding his son made any noise. Not one beep. Even their digital displays were dimmed. It was a haven for migraine sufferers.

John didn't want to disturb the peace, but he needed to see Dean, needed to make sure he was okay. The doctor's talk of tumors and hypertension—which in John's head flashed like a neon sign, _stroke, stroke, stroke—_had scared him. Worse, it make him feel helpless. This was something he couldn't salt and burn.

Hesitantly, he grasped the rail keeping Dean from tumbling out of bed and leaned forward.

Dean's eyes were open.

John almost jerked back in surprise. He knew that the migraine medication flowing through Dean's IV was supposed to make him drowsy. Dean should be asleep.

″Is the pain worse, Dean?″ John barely gave the mouthed words any sound. ″Do I need to get the doctor?″

Dean blinked a few times, but the clouded confusion in his eyes didn't go away.

″You wondering what's happening?″ John asked gently.

″Ummm...″ Dean mumbled.

″You're in the hospital and will probably be here for a few days. You've finally stopped vomiting. You have two IVs. One to help with the migraine and nausea. The other is to rehydrate you. You also have a nasal cannula. The high level of O2 is supposed to help with the headache.″

″N—no,″ Dean finally managed to say.

John frowned at him. ″What the hell do you mean 'no'?″

Dean shuddered, a whimper escaping him.

″Sorry, son, sorry,″ John whispered. He hadn't meant to raise his voice. It hadn't been that much louder, but it had been enough to hurt Dean. That couldn't happen again. ″Look, Dean, just relax as much as you can. You need to follow the doctor's orders. You'll be fine.″

″No, Dad,″ Dean said, voice rusty. ″N—not that.″

″What? I don't understand.″ John shook his head. ″Doesn't matter. Just rest, son.″

Dean's arm trembled as he lifted his hand. He touched John's wrist before the strength left him and his arm fell back to the bed. ″Boy. Help him.″ Dean took a couple of deep breaths. ″Boy.″

John frowned. ″What boy, Dean? What are you talking about?″

″Boy,″ Dean repeated, fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach out to John again, but couldn't muster the strength. ″Lisle. A—asking...l—looking for his mother.″

″What are you--″ John broke off, thinking. ″The ghost, Dean? Is that what you're talking about?″

″Yeah.″ John could barely hear him.

His son was worried about a ghost? What the hell?

″Don't worry about it, Dean,″ John said. ″It'll get taken care of.″

Dean's eyes fell shut and he moaned.

″Dean?″ John leaned over him, anxious. ″Dean? What is it? You gonna be sick?″ _Please, _John thought. _No more vomiting. Please. He can't take it anymore. He just can't._

″Wants his mom,″ Dean's voice was practically gone. ″Mom.″

John's heart clenched. ″Dean.″ He very carefully laid his hand on top of Dean's, squeezing his fingers gently. _I wish she was here, too, buddy. ″_Get some sleep, Dean. I'll take care of it. You just get better. Okay, son? Just rest.″

John wasn't sure how long he stood there, watching Dean sleep, before a nurse entered the room and asked him to leave.

* * *

″How is he?″ Bobby asked when John entered the waiting the room that had become their temporary home.

John rubbed the back of his neck. ″If it weren't for all the fucking tubes sticking out of him, he'd look like he was just resting.″ His shoulders slumped. ″Actually, Bobby, he's just so still. And when he talked to me, it was like he could barely get the words out.″

Bobby got to his feet. ″He talked to you? Damn, John, that's actually good news!″

″Yeah, I guess so,″ John said. ″I think he was doing too much too soon.″

″Yeah, that sounds familiar,″ Bobby grumbled. ″What did he say?″

John snorted and shook his head. ″He was worried.″

Bobby frowned. ″About what? Sam?″

″That would have made sense,″ John said. ″But, no, not Sam. Dean was worried about the ghost out at the old Lisle Farm.″

″Are you talking about the fucking hunt?″ Bobby stared at him. ″What the hell?″

John chuckled tiredly. ″That's what I said. But then Dean told me that the ghost was a boy looking for his mother.″

Bobby took his cap off and rubbed at his scalp. ″Aw, hell.″

″Pretty much,″ John agreed. He hesitated. ″Maybe I should go back out there and take care of it.″

Bobby grabbed him roughly by the collar. ″Don't you even think about leavin' this hospital, John Winchester. Your boy needs you.″

″He needs me to take care of the ghost,″ John argued. ″He practically begged me to go back and take care of it. If he'd had the strength, he probably would have tried getting out of bed to do it himself.″

″I can believe that,″ Bobby muttered. ″Listen, John, I know how you hate waitin'. I know that you want to be out doin' something, but you have to stay here.″ He shook John. ″This is where you need to be.″

John pulled away from Bobby's grasp and nodded. ″I know. It's just....″

″We're gonna have to ride this out, John,″ Bobby said quietly. ″We'll get through this and get Dean home.″

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ″You're right, Bobby. Dean needs me here.″

″Damn straight,″ Bobby said. ″I'll make a few calls and pass along the information. There are other hunters out there. One of them can deal with the problem.″

″Yeah.″ John nodded. ″Do that. This way I'll have something to tell Dean when he asks about it.″

″I'm on it,″ Bobby said, turning to leave. He'd take care of business outside. He paused and looked back at John. ″Hey, you think I could see Dean the next time he's allowed visitors?″

John looked surprised, but then a small smile graced his stubble-covered features. ″Sure. No doubt Dean would like a visit from his uncle.″

″His _favorite _uncle,″ Bobby said, pleased.

″His _only _uncle.″ John shot back.

Then they both laughed and it felt good.

* * *

The hours dragged on, but the only way John had any way of knowing that was to look at his watch from time to time. The waiting room didn't have windows.

He and Bobby had taken to playing cards to pass the time. It was either that or drink weak coffee and eat stale donuts. Just thinking about it made John grimace.

The monotony would have gotten to him if not for the periodic visits to Dean he'd been allowed. He and Bobby took turns. And even though Dean slept most of time, it was good to see him. It made their stay in the waiting room more tolerable. But then John knew that he would wait as long as it took for his boy to get better.

It was close to evening and John was contemplating a trip to the cafeteria for a dinner he wasn't really up to eating. Bobby was visiting with Dean at the moment and John figured he'd wait for his friend before deciding.

John picked up the deck of cards and started an unenthusiastic game of Solitaire. A few minutes went by and he tossed the cards down. He rubbed at his eyes, feeling older than his years, tired beyond belief.

This was how Dr. Taylor found him when he entered the room. ″Mr. Winchester?″ he said, looking at him with concern. ″Perhaps you should go home and get some rest.″

″I'm not leaving without my son,″ John growled at him, getting to his feet.

The doctor nodded, the look on his face one of understanding. ″Mr. Winchester, you aren't the first parent to want to move into the hospital to be with their child. However, you have to realize that once visiting hours are over for the evening, you won't be able to see Dean. It would be best for _him_ if you got some sleep.″

″Dr. Taylor, with all due respect, you can't force me to leave.″

″I know that, too,″ Dr. Taylor agreed. ″But I have some news that might change your mind.″

″You're going to release him?″ John asked hopefully.

″Not tonight,″ Taylor said. ″but in the morning. His blood pressure is back to normal without the aid of medication. Mr. Winchester, the good news is that Dean is only suffering from a migraine coupled with a slight concussion. The bad news is that he is a chronic migraine sufferer. I'll have some prescriptions that you should get filled. He should have the meds with him at all times and he should check in with his doctor regularly.″

_As news went, _thought John, _it wasn't particularly good at all, but it was better than some of the alternatives that the doctor had mentioned. _He still shuddered at the thought of _tumor _and _hypertension._ ″Right, doctor. I'll make sure that Dean keeps up with his medication.″

″He won't have to take the pills all of the time,″ Taylor informed him. ″It's only when he feels a migraine coming on. He just needs to make sure that he keeps the scrips filled.″

John nodded. ″Don't worry,″ he said grimly. ″He will.″

″Good,″ Taylor said. ″So, knowing that Dean will be okay, do you think you'll be able to head home for some rest?″

″I'll think about,″ John lied.

″Good enough,″ Taylor answered. ″If you have any questions, let me know.″

They shook hands and the doctor departed.

John couldn't wait to share the good news with Bobby. Dean was going home.

* * *

Dean looked down at his plate of salmon and broccoli. Apparently, these were foods that helped to fight migraines. It looked like his near future was going to be devoid of cheeseburgers. Vegetables and fish. This sucked out loud.

″Something wrong with your lunch, Dean?″ His father asked, a note of challenge in his voice.

Dean glanced up to find both Bobby and his father staring at him. Very calmly, although he felt like giving flying fish a whole new meaning, Dean speared a piece of broccoli. He chewed and managed to swallow it without choking on the noxious taste. He took a second piece and hoped that would satisfy his audience.

Neither John's intense stare nor Bobby's frown went away.

Dean almost wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Just in time, he grabbed his napkin. A perpetual grease monkey, Bobby was a stickler for table manners. Dean had really never understood that.

There was at least half a fish left, but Dean was okay with that. He'd eaten more than he had at dinner last night and breakfast this morning combined. He hoped it was enough to satisfy his father. Dean dreaded what he was going to say. There was no way he could eat anymore, not unless he wanted to see it reappear. His stomach just couldn't handle any more.

Since Dean had been released from the hospital, John had practically been counting the number of bites he'd taken.

On the other hand, it was Bobby who was timing his naps. Not that Dean felt he needed naps. His father, however, thought differently and you just didn't argue with John Winchester. He had scheduled Dean's naps like he used to schedule his training sessions. Dean vowed to never allow his headaches to get this bad again. That, or hide them better. He'd actually gotten pretty good at that. It had helped that his father and brother had spent so much time arguing that they often overlooked him. That had been okay with Dean. He didn't like being fussed over.

Apparently, those days were over.

"That all you're going to eat?" John asked gruffly.

Dean glanced at the fish and limp broccoli. His stomach dived and rolled then flipped for good measure. He swallowed hard and tried to answer the question in a tone as even as possible. "Yeah. I'm done." He turned to Bobby. "Thanks for lunch." He hadn't realized the man could cook let alone prepare fish.

Bobby grunted, but didn't say anything. The volume of worry in his eyes was louder than any words could have been.

Dean wanted to sink into the floor. He hated seeing that look on Bobby's face, knowing he was the cause. No one was supposed to worry about him. Not Dean.

"Have you taken your pills?" John asked.

Dean looked over at his father. The pills were something else he hated, but there was no way to avoid taking them. John had been watching him like a hawk and that wasn't going to change anytime soon. "No. I'm only supposed to take them if I need them." It didn't hurt to try.

"Go on. Get both pills and take them."

"Dad, I don't need them." Dean wanted to pat himself on the back at how steady his voice had been.

"Does your head still hurt?" John's stare was like being under a microscope, seeing all that Dean was trying to hide.

Dean didn't answer right away, trying to find the words that would satisfy his father. "Not really." Okay, not his best effort.

John crossed his arms over his chest. "That's not an answer."

Dean ran his thumb over the smooth wood of the dining room table. "It doesn't hurt as much as it did a couple of days ago. Pain's almost gone."

"Right, so you need to take your meds." John rose from the table.

"Stomach's feelin' out of sorts, too, I'll bet," Bobby said, leaning back in his chair.

Dean shot him a betrayed look, but Bobby's gaze never wavered.

John snorted. "It's a sure thing." He put two pill bottles on the table. "Take one of each and then go park yourself on the couch."

Dean looked from one to the other, wanting to protest. In the end, he didn't. On this point, he was outmatched. Probably always would be. "Yes, sir," he replied dutifully if somewhat sullenly. He downed the anti-emetic pill and followed it with another for the pain in his head.

"Get some sleep, Dean," Bobby said.

Dean nodded and slipped out of the room.

Sleep was the last thing he wanted. He was so damn tired of sleeping.

As Dean lay down on the couch, he had to finally admit to himself that it was his own damn fault. He'd tried so very hard to ignore the empty spot next to him. In all practical aspects, he was a team of one now and it hurt—hurt like he was missing a limb. If he bottled up all the hurt and packed it away then the pain couldn't touch him. It had worked for him in the past. He thought it would work for him now.

He'd been wrong. In a bad way.

The pressure had started small, almost unnoticeable. But then, the pain in his head had grown steadily, ambushing him. He had had a hard time swallowing. Each time his throat had worked, tiny spasms of pain shot up the sides of his neck, ending in tiny throbbing points behind his ears. What food he had managed to swallow had ended up a hard lump in his stomach.

Dean had ignored it; had ignored everything. If he ignored it, it would disappear. If he kept everything together, nice and tight, he'd be okay.

Dean hadn't counted on the ghost.

The walk up the stairs, the search of the hallway, opening the first bedroom door, had all been routine. The ethereal boy standing in front of the hallway window had almost taken him by surprise. The ghost, probably no more than eight or nine years-old, had focused on Dean with an intensity that had sent a shiver up his spine. The little hand had reached out to him and the little boy had moaned, ″Where's mommy? Why isn't she here? Can you tell me where she is?″

Dean had stared at him, his feet rooted to the spot. In his mind, he was picturing a scene similar to this one. Only it was Sammy standing in front of him, Sammy asking him about mom. Dean had swallowed painfully, his head pounding.

The boy, in true ghost fashion, had gone from standing in front of the window to standing directly in front of Dean. He had lifted his hand again and Dean had felt the air cool, as if he'd stepped into a freezer.

Instinct had taken over and he had raised his shotgun. His finger had been on the trigger when the muscles in his neck had spasmed and a sharp pain had rocketed through his head. Only training and pure Dean Winchester determination had allowed him to keep ahold of his gun. It had trembled in his grasp.

The boy in front of him had wavered and Dean had blinked.

Suddenly, he he had been knocked off his feet, sailing through the air. His back had impacted hard against the wall and he'd fallen. He'd managed to get off a shot, but the damage had been had felt like thousands of fire-tipped arrows, danced across his skin, penetrating deep into his muscles. There had been too much pain to even gather enough air to shout.

When Dean had been able to manage more than shallow pants, it was to become aware of his father leaning over him, shouting in his face.

"—Dean! Dean, answer me! Dean!"

Dean had always known his purpose in life. It was to take care of his family…even if his family didn't really need him. It had felt all wrong to Dean, to be staring up into his father's worried face.

So Dean had done what he'd done a hundred times before. He'd sat up and smiled.

It hadn't mattered that his vision was graying out around the edges. Hadn't mattered that his skull was shrinking, pushing on his brain so that it felt like it was oozing out his ears.

It hadn't mattered. Never did.

Dean remembered getting down the stairs and into the car. He could even recall walking into the motel room and collapsing on the bed. There was even a nasty memory of him throwing up. _Again._

After that, nothing until waking up in the hospital and realizing he was screwed.

Dean closed his eyes, wondering when his father would stop looking at him as if he were going to break.

* * *

John and Bobby hadn't moved from their spots at the kitchen table. The moment Dean had left, silence had descended. Neither man seemed bothered by it. Solitude was a way of life for them and while _comforting_ might be the wrong word, they were content.

Finally, Bobby spoke. ″The Lisle problem's been taken care of.″

John looked up from his contemplation of the dregs of his coffee. ″Yeah? What happened?″

″It may have been called the Lisle farm,″ Bobby said, leaning back in his chair. ″But it hasn't really been the Lisle's place all that long. Before that, the farm belonged to the Carter-Brooks family for generations.″

John stood up to refill his coffee. ″I don't remember coming across that info when we did our research.″

Bobby scowled at him. ″Ya didn't go back far enough, you idgit. Neither one of you was ready for a hunt.″

John's grip on the handle of his mug tightened. He restrained the urge to throw it at Bobby. ″I think you've already made your point clear, Bobby. Why don't you just tell me what happened with the Carter-Brooks farm.″

″Don't really know what it's gonna take to get through that thick skull of yours, do I?″ Bobby muttered.

Bobby!″ John barked at him, giving in and slamming his mug onto the table. The hot coffee sloshed over the sides of the cup, scalding him. He gritted his teeth and ignored the pain. He probably deserved it.

Other than a knowing glance, Bobby didn't comment. He moved on. ″'Bout forty years ago, the youngest Carter-Brooks, Nathan, was visitin' grandparents in another state when he was hit by a drunk driver. Little boy didn't make it.″

″Boy's been looking for his mother ever since,″ John said, feeling the weight of his words in the very marrow of his bones.

″Yeah,″ Bobby confirmed, voice subdued. ″The little boy was cremated.″

John frowned. ″We knew no one had died at the house, but that's where the ghost was manifesting. What kept him there?″

Bobby let out a sigh. ″You were right to search the place, John. If things hadn't...gone south you probably would have figured it out eventually. Mongoose had to toss the place pretty good before--″

″You sent _Mongoose_?″ John asked incredulously. ″A _taxidermist_?″

″Everyone has to have a hobby,″ Bobby said, somewhat blandly.

″Yeah,″ John agreed, ″but that guy is practically channeling Norman Bates.″

Bobby rolled his eyes. ″He was the only one available and he got the job done. I don't see the problem here. 'Sides, I'm sure there are people out there wonderin' if _you're_ playin' with a full deck.″

″Bobby,″ John growled. The man could get to him like no other. ″Just tell me what the hell he found.″

″Teeth,″ Bobby answered, smug smile in place. ″He found baby teeth on the top shelf of the closet in the master bedroom. They were stored in a tiny toy treasure chest and it was pushed all the way to the back. Took some doing, but he got rid of 'em.″

″Baby teeth.″ John let the melancholy he normally kept locked down tight wash over him. Every parent kept them as tiny momentos of childhood. He, himself, kept Dean's and Sam's stored in a safe place. John was just lucky that the teeth weren't all that he had of his sons. ″I'll have to tell Dean.″

″Yeah.″ Bobby nodded. ″It's already been taken care of so he doesn't have to go back out there.″

″Thanks for that, Bobby,″ John said quietly. Dean hadn't mentioned the boy since the hospital, but it was only a matter of time. And John knew Dean wasn't ready for a hunt. Not by a long shot.

The muffled sound of a ringing phone reached his ears. John pulled out his cellphone. It was silent. He slipped his hand into his other pocket and took out Dean's phone and glanced at the display. Sure enough, there was an incoming call.

John let it ring.

″You gonna answer that?″ Bobby asked.

The phone stopped ringing.

″Guess not,″ John answered.

″Who--″Bobby started to ask.

The phone started ringing again.

John and Bobby stared at each other.

Bobby frowned and glanced at the phone John still held. ″Never took you for a coward, Winchester,″ he growled.

John wanted to argue, to refute Bobby's claim, but he couldn't. Instead, glowering defiantly at Bobby, he stabbed the 'talk' button. ″Winchester.″

Silence. Then, ″Why are you answering Dean's phone?″

″Hello to you, too, son,″ John answered, trying to keep his tone even.

More silence. ″Why are you answering Dean's phone, Dad?″ Sam repeated.

Sam would ask questions until he had answers. Sometimes it was a useful gift; most times it was annoying. Like now. ″I'm answering it, Sam, because he can't.″

″How bad?″ Sam sounded brittle. John heard him take a deep breath. ″How bad? Damn it, Dad, what happened?″

″What's the big deal?″ John asked, irritably. It seemed to be his default setting when dealing with his youngest. ″He's asleep.″

What followed was a silence so unsettling that John had to look at the display to make sure that the call hadn't been dropped. When he saw that they were still connected, trepidation tripped across his nerves.

Those words might as well have been bullets for all the damage they had done. Dean didn't take naps. Sam knew that as well as he did. John braced himself, and waited for Sam's return volley.

His son didn't disappoint.

″Damn it, Dad,″ Sam choked out in a horrified whisper. ″What _happened? _What did you _do?″_

John wished he'd made something up, but Sam had always had the knack for seeing through his bullshit. And if even though he wasn't sure how things could get any worse, a lie might have complicated the situation further. Sam had always been an over achiever. He tried to cover up his failing attempts to keep control of the conversation with a blustered, ″Watch your language, Sam.″

There was a pause and the tension ratcheted up a notch.

″To hell with that, Dad.″ Each of Sam's words were slow and deliberate, barbed with a stinger to pierce the heart. ″What the _fuck_ did you do?″

John stood abruptly, the words having done their job, setting off a fireworks display of guilt. ″I didn't do anything!″ It came out defensive. He was vibrating with rage, mainly at himself. He was mad at Sam, too, for provoking him, for reminding him what a bad father he was being. God, why hadn't he been able to see how much Dean was hurting? Why the hell couldn't he communicate with Sam without wanting to destroy things with his bare hands?

There was a snort of disbelief. ″Yeah, you didn't anything. Dean's just sleeping in the middle of the fucking day!″ A heavy sigh followed, tinged with hurt and disappointment. ″Tell me something, Dad.″ Sam's voice went quiet, heavy with sadness. ″Would you tell me if he was hurt? If my brother was in the fucking hospital, would you call and tell me?″

John gripped the back of his chair, knuckles growing white, the guilt flaring hotter and brighter. ″Dean is fine, Sam,″ he said, sidestepping the question. His breathing settled and he continued. ″You know your brother. It's all or nothing with him.″ John took up the reins of control again. ″Last night, it was _all_.″ He let the words sink in, hoping to get his meaning across without having to outright lie. ″He's sleeping it off.″

″A—a hangover?″ Sam sounded deflated.

″He's had a hard time,″ John said. No need to lie now. ″Tell me, Sam, did you say anything to him on your drive to California?″

″What do you mean?″ Sam sounded defensive.

″Spit it out, Sam.″ John gritted out. ″What did you tell your brother when you left him?″

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line and John realized the shoe was on the other foot now. Funny how he felt no satisfaction in causing his son to feel guilty. It actually caused him pain, knowing that in a way he was hurting Sam. Still, he had to know.

When Sam spoke, his words were full of emotion. ″I asked him to stay, Dad.″ There was a snuffling noise. ″I asked him to stay with me and he said no. You happy now? He said you needed him. Made it sound as if I didn't.″ Another sniffle. ″And then...then he drove away. Fuck,″ Sam whispered.

John dropped into his chair, stunned. He hadn't expected that and it shamed him. It had been easier to be angry at Sam for abandoning them. Much harder to admit that Sam might miss his family, that he _cared._ ″Sam,″ he started to say, voice trembling slightly.

There was a sound indicating a disconnected call. John stared at it in disbelief. Sam hadn't even given him a chance to reach out.

″John?″

Startled, John turned to Bobby. ″He hung up.″ John knew he sounded numb, but didn't care. He just couldn't seem to do right by his boys. He ached for Mary to be there by his side, to tell him what to do. ″We're so messed up, Bobby.″

″It'll turn out all right,″ Bobby said gruffly.

John snorted, and spoke in a tone of self-loathing. ″One son curses at me and then hangs up on me. The other hides his pain, driving himself to be sick, and I treat him like he's invisible. Fuck, Bobby, I don't deserve for it to be all right.″

″I don't know about that, John,″ Bobby said. ″But if you don't try to make things better, you'll lose them both for good.″

John's head snapped up at that.

Bobby continued. ″I never knew a Winchester to quit, is all.″

A small smile cracked the tension that had cemented his face into hard, unforgiving lines. ″Guess you're right about that.″

″No guessin' about it,″ Bobby said and stood. ″Now, how 'bout somethin' stronger?″

John nodded his head, wearily. The road ahead seemed interminably long and filled with potholes, but he'd manage. He always did. And maybe this time he could make some repairs along the way. ″Beer sounds good right about now.″

Bobby was just reaching for the handle of the refrigerator door when his house phone rang. He changed direction and picked up the phone. ″Hello.″ Bobby looked at John, frowning. ″Hey, Sam, how ya doin', kid?″ A pause. ″Uh, yeah, I talked to Dean a couple of hours ago.″ The frown deepened and he continued to stare at John. ″Nope, they aren't on a hunt.″ Another pause. ″He's fine, Sam. What makes you think he isn't?″ He glared at John.

John rolled his eyes and set his jaw.

″Naw, kid, your brother's okay. Maybe you should try calling him again later.″ Bobby nodded. ″Yeah, Sam,″ he said quietly. ″If anything happens, I'll keep you posted. You take care now.″ Bobby hung up the phone.

″I can't believe he called you,″ John burst out.

″He just wanted to make sure his brother was okay,″ Bobby argued.

″What,″ John said hotly. ″He needed a second opinion? I told him Dean was fine.″

Bobby squared his shoulders. ″And obviously he didn't believe you.″

John's shoulders slumped. ″Fuck.″

″Sounds about right,″ Bobby said. ″Looks like you have a lot of patchin' up to do.″

″You don't know that half of it,″ John muttered.

″Just so you know, John,″ Bobby said, tone taking on a gravity that surprised him. ″From here on out if something happens that I think Sam needs to know, I'm going to call him. I told him I would and damned if I'm going to make that a lie.″

″Bobby,″ John growled at him.

A muffled ringing interrupted their conversation and John let out a sigh. He was afraid to answer it, but he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cellphone anyway. The number on the display had him visibly relaxing. There would be no angry son on the other end of this call. ″Winchester,″ he said, after connecting. ″Yeah, that's me. How can I help you?″ He spared Bobby a glance before heading out the backdoor, his voice fading as it slammed shut behind him.

If John had looked back, he would have seen Bobby staring after him, shaking his head.

* * *

″_Where's mommy? Why isn't she here? Can you tell me where she is?″ The boy's image flickered in and out like a poorly connected lightbulb. The image changed. ″Where's mommy, Dean? Why isn't she here? Where is she?″_

″_It's okay, Sammy.″ Dean reached out to lay a hand on his little brother's shoulder. _

_Sam flickered once, twice, then was gone._

″_Sammy!″ Dean called, panicked. ″Sam! No, come back, Sam! Come back. Sammy!″_

The sound of his own shouting startled Dean awake and he sat up, arms flailing. He teetered for a moment and then gravity took hold and he tumbled off the couch, narrowly missing hitting his head on the coffee table. He lay on the floor panting, hand fumbling before his fingers caught on the table leg. Dean grabbed onto it, feeling the smoothness of the wood cool against his palm. He kept his grip on it nice and tight as he tried to control his breathing, trying to will away the pain that flared up in his head, eating at his brain.

″Dean? Dean, you okay?″ Muttered cursing. ″Come on.″ Hands reached around him and started to tug him upward.

He groaned and managed to grip the table leg with his other hand. It was the only thing keeping him from tilting and whirling as the room spun around him. ″No,″ he mumbled as the hands grew more insistent. He blinked the haze out of his eyes as he felt the table rock.

″Dean, come on, let's get you back on the sofa.″ Bobby's soft tone finally penetrated. ″Let go now. Come on.″

Dean shuddered and let his hands fall away. He wanted to help Bobby, he really did, but he just didn't seem to have the energy. The older man grunted and pulled Dean up off the floor and settled him back onto the couch.

A moment or two, maybe more, passed before Dean's thundering heartbeat slowed. The pain in his head still thumped against his temple, but he had been dealing with that for days now. He could handle it.

″Here,″ Bobby said. ″Drink this.″

Carefully, Dean sat up. When everything appeared to stay stationery and his stomach remained where it was supposed to, he took the glass of water from Bobby. He drank, letting the water wash down his throat, suddenly realizing how thirsty he was.

″Take it easy,″ Bobby murmured. ″There's plenty more where that came from.″

″Thanks,″ Dean said.

″Listen, I can't give you any pills right now. You just took some a little over an hour ago,″ Bobby said.

″That's okay.″ Dean waved that away. ″It's not so bad.″

Bobby shot him a skeptical look.

″Really, Bobby.″ Dean tried to reassure him, not sure if he was succeeding. ″I'm okay.″

″You just keep restin',″ Bobby said. ″I'm going to get you some more water.″

Dean looked over the back of the couch, watching as Bobby walked away. He noticed that Bobby had set up a card table. There were a few guns sitting on it, one that had been disassembled.

Standing up, Dean made his way around the couch. Maybe he could convince Bobby to let him help clean the weapons. It was one of those activities that Dean found relaxing. He was sure it would make him feel better.

″What are you doin' off the couch, boy?″ Bobby asked, returning from the kitchen.

Dean took the second glass of water and drank deeply. He really was very thirsty. It had always been a weird side effect to the migraines. ″I was hoping you'd let me help you clean the guns.″

″Are you out of your mind?″ Bobby bellowed.

Dean winced. It hadn't been particularly loud, but it was piercing. ″Trust me, Bobby, it'll actually help.″

Bobby looked at him incredulously. ″How do you figure?″

Dean opened his mouth to explain, but his father chose that moment to enter the room.

″What's going on here?″ John asked, dropping his duffel to the floor. He looked from Bobby to Dean.

Dean eyed the bag on the floor. He knew what that meant. ″You found a hunt?″

John narrowed his eyes at him and Dean realized somewhat belatedly that he had totally ignored his father's question. He waited for the reprimand and was surprised when it didn't come.

″Yeah,″ John answered. ″I found a hunt.″

Dean couldn't help it, he smiled. ″Just give me a few minutes, Dad, and I'll be packed and ready to go.″

″Now just a minute,″ Bobby sputtered.

Dean turned to him, embarrassed. ″Sorry, Bobby, I forgot,″ he said. ″Thanks for letting us crash here for a few days.″

″Dean,″ John said.

Dean turned to him. ″I'll be right back.″

″John Winchester,″ Bobby roared. ″If you think I'm letting take that boy on a hunt, you have another thing coming.″

″Bobby,″ Dean said, looking back at him. He froze, staring at the long barrel of a shotgun. A shotgun that happened to be pointed at his father. Without thought, he moved in front of it, hands up in supplication. ″Hey, Bobby, it's okay. No need to point that thing at anyone.″

″Dean,″ John said again. This time, iron seemed to infuse the name.

There were hands on his shoulders, strong and implacable. He was moved out of range of the gun and he found himself staring into his father's stern countenance.

″Son,″ his father rumbled. ″Don't you ever get between me and a weapon.″

Dean looked from the gun that Bobby hadn't lowered to his father. ″But, Dad--″

The grip on his shoulders became painful. ″Do I make myself clear?″

Dean swallowed. ″Yes, sir.″

His father lessened his grip, but didn't move his hands.

John looked over at Bobby. ″You can put the gun down, Bobby. I happen to agree with you. Dean's staying put.″

″What?″ Dean asked. ″Why? I'm fine, Dad. I can hunt. I can watch your back.″

″I know you can,″ John said quietly. ″But you're not ready to go back into the field yet, son.″

″I'm ready,″ Dean protested, desperate. ″Come on, Dad, you have to let me go with you. Please.″

″No, Dean.″ And there was no arguing with that voice. ″I need for you to stay here. Rest. This job won't take long. I'll be back soon. Then we'll get back on the road.″

″But, Dad, I want to go with you. You need me.″ Dean gave it one last effort. What his father said made sense, but he couldn't help feeling as if his family was disintegrating. He had this irrational fear that they wanted to leave him behind and never come back. ″Please, Dad.″

″You're staying here, Dean,″ John said. ″That's an order.″

Dean dropped his gaze to the floor. ″Yes, sir.″

John squeezed his shoulder. ″I'll be back before you know it, son. Then it'll be you, me, and the Impala. Okay?″

Dean lifted his eyes to his father's. ″You'll come back for me?″

″Of course, I will,″ John said. ″I need my wingman, don't I?″

Dean wanted to point out that if his father could go solo on one job then he could probably handle others alone as well, but he didn't want to sabotage his own hope. ″Okay, I'll stay,″ he said as if he'd had a choice all along. ″Maybe I can help Bobby with some oil changes, a few tune ups.″

″Rest, Dean, nothing else,″ John said firmly. ″Promise me.″

″Fine.″ Dean sighed, knowing there was no way to win this. ″I promise.″

″I promise, too,″ Bobby said. He had put down the shotgun and had been watching them from his spot at the table. ″Don't worry, John, I'll see to it that he takes it easy.″

_Yeah, _Dean thought. _Not winning anything anytime soon._ Migraines were a pain in the ass.

″Thanks, Bobby,″ John said. He lifted his bag onto his shoulder and looked at Dean. ″I'll be back in a few days.″

″Okay,″ Dean said. He wanted to tell his dad to be careful, but it had never been like that between them. Instead, all he could do was watch his father walk out the door and hope that he would walk back through it again soon.

″So,″ Bobby said. ″You gonna help me with this or not?″ He gestured to the guns scattered on the table.

Dean stared at the closed door for a moment longer before turning to Bobby. ″You think he'll be back, Bobby?″

″You're father ain't no angel, that's for damn sure,″ Bobby said. ″But one thing you gotta say about John Winchester, he never breaks a promise. He'll be back, Dean.″

Dean nodded, the hope glowing a little dimmer. He couldn't bear telling Bobby that John had been the only one not to make a promise.

Bobby probably knew that anyway.

The End


End file.
